A Matter Of Pride
by FagandNewYorker
Summary: Sherlock's pride takes a hit and Watson, as always,  is on hand to provide support. Soon the tables are turned and Holmes has to return the favour.      This is my first ever fic, so go easy on me!    Rated M for future content. Slash! H/W
1. Chapter 1

The soft sound of a resonating violin string penetrated the silence in the dark room, a single corner dimly lit by the flickering of a candle.

Holmes plucked absent-mindedly at the wooden instrument as he watched the flame dance in front of him, and cast his mind back to his earlier encounter of the day.

**_He had been tailing a murder suspect for what seemed like forever (in fact, just a few short hours), fully disguised in order to avoid detection. The streets of London never seemed to end as Holmes pursued his target, inching closer by the minute._**

**_The suspect in question had been wanted for interrogation by Scotland Yard for a long time, yet the case had only landed in Holmes' lap the day previously._**

**_It never failed to amaze him how incompetent the force seemed to be, and yet again he was proving them amateur as he closed in on the subject within the space of 24 hours. _**

**_Predicting imminent capture, Holmes almost allowed himself a sigh of relief - knowing that finally there would be answers to the recent string of murders along the banks of the River Thames. If the suspect proved innocent, he was sure at least that he would bring much needed evidence to the fore, and they could finally begin to wrap up the seemingly never-ending case._**

**_As they approached Whitehall, Holmes watched as the man ahead of him slowed down. With no doorway to slip into, or any available form of camouflage, there was nothing for Holmes to do but watch as the man turned slowly and glared in his direction. _**

**_He'd been seen._**

**_Before Holmes could rethink his plan of action, the man broke into a sprint, out onto Whitehall and right into the path of a passing hansom. The chase was over, and for the suspect, that wasn't all that came to an end that morning. _**

**_As the crowd quickly gathered, Holmes edged closer and elbowed his way forward, just in time to see the cab driver dip his head, and cover the staring, bloodied face with his handkerchief._**

Holmes plucked at his violin again, this time with more force as he remembered the man lying in the street, twisted and broken. He could hear the whinnying of the horses, and the sound of their hooves hitting the cobbles in fear, and he could still see the sobbing women, being gently guided away from the scene by their husbands.

It just wouldn't do.

* * *

Holmes had never failed so spectacularly. Firstly, he had been seen. Secondly, he should never have allowed such a catastrophe to happen. He should have apprehended the target much earlier and turned him into the police before such atrocities came to bear.

As it stood, he had accomplished nothing but to hinder the investigation further. The only major lead in the case was now lying cold on the mortuary slab; with not a single answer on its lips.

As he propped the violin against the table leg, his eyes fell upon the Moroccan case that held position in its usual resting place. It had been a long time since Holmes had paid any attention to his old friend, and brushing away the fleeting notion of guilt, he laid his fingers upon it, relishing the creaking sound it made as his fingers slowly prised it open.

If ever there was a suitable time for such indulgence, in Holmes' mind, this was it.

Before he had chance to further contemplate the shining needle enclosed inside the velvet case, the door to his room swung open, and in the hallway stood the silhouette of Dr John Watson.

"Holmes, old chap, it is not yet dusk! This is no time at all to be brooding by candlelight!"

The dark shape entered the room and moved swiftly towards the window, and Holmes deduced that the drapes would soon be pinned back, flooding the room with unwanted afternoon sunlight.

His fingers moved quickly and closed the case to, quietly stowing it away in his desk drawer to save himself from the lecture that he would undoubtedly receive from his friend. A dressing down was certainly not needed at a time like this, and he had grown increasingly accustomed to concealing his habit.

As the curtains were flung open, he dropped his head to shield himself from the unforgiving daylight. He heard Watson turn on his heel and waited for the conversation he had been dreading for the past hour.

"I just bumped into Lestrade, just outside, in fact. No doubt he was here to see you, but don't worry, I headed him off. He told me what happened, and I had a feeling you wouldn't be accommodating to visitors right now."

Holmes let out a low groan at Watson's chirpy disposition. The doctor never failed to hit his nerves at times like these, and although Holmes realised it was in an attempt to cheer him up, he couldn't help but be slightly vexed by the effort.

"Oh, come now, Holmes. It can't be as bad as all that. I've requested a nice pot of tea from Mrs Hudson, so come sit on the settee and you can tell me all about it"

Raising his head from his hands, Holmes glared almost aggressively at Watson, but he felt a pinch of regret as he saw him blanch at the stare.

"I do not need your tea and sympathy, Watson. What I need is silence, and to be alone. I have neither if you are hovering over me, Mother Hen. Kindly leave me."

He stood up from his chair and stepped over piles of news clippings as he strode across the room to show Watson out. As he gripped the door handle, he felt a simultaneous grip on his own shoulder, followed by a small pat on his back. As much as he wanted to flinch away, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Holmes… I'm not leaving. Sit."

* * *

Resigned to his fate, Holmes turned back into the room without looking at Watson. He knew there would be a smug grin residing on Watson's face, and he didn't need to add any more fuel to his already raging fire. He had never felt anger quite like it. Not at his friend, but at himself. He wasn't accustomed to being a failure, and his ego was bruised beyond immediate repair. Now certainly wasn't the time for him to discuss his shortcomings, but he was sagacious enough to know that he wasn't going to get out of this anytime soon.

As he sat on the settee, Mrs Hudson arrived with the tea. Glancing over at Watson, she gave a nervous smile, which was met by a curt nod. Holmes grimaced as he realised Watson had already informed her of the nature of Holmes' dark mood, and it pained him to think that they had been discussing him like a pair gossiping widows. To save him from further embarrassment, he swung his legs up onto the settee brashly; leaned back with his arms folded and shot a look of disdain at the poor housekeeper.

"Ah, Nanny… More poison I see? Enjoy your 'tea' Watson, for I shan't be having any of it."

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes (for this wasn't the first time she'd had such insults), and left the room hurriedly. She had no intention of staying around for the fireworks.


	2. Chapter 2

"Don't pout so, Holmes. It's hardly becoming of a gentleman…"

Watson poured the tea into both cups, knowing full well that despite Holmes' indignant display with Mrs Hudson, they would both be drinking the freshly brewed beverage.

As he watched the liquid flow into the cups, he felt Holmes' eyes boring into him, and knew instantly that he was achieving the goal of teasing his sulking companion.

"Watson. Shut up."

Holmes crossed his arms more tightly and concentrated his gaze onto Gladstone, who was out cold on the hearthrug. It wasn't the first time the dog had been experimented on, so Watson didn't seem too shocked as he followed Holmes' stare.

"Move aside, chap! There's supposed to be room for two on there."

Holmes ignored the request and sank deeper into the settee; leaving Watson stood holding onto his cup and saucer expectantly. Eventually Watson gave up waiting and moved over to lean on the fireplace, nudging Gladstone gently with his toe as he rested his tea on the mantel.

* * *

For a few moments, the room was silent, aside from the heavy breathing of the unconscious canine. Watson watched Holmes for any sign of submission, but instead was met with a stubborn sigh and the same avoidance he'd been getting since he arrived.

He took a sip of his tea, burning his tongue slightly in the process, and set the cup back down with a resigned sigh.

"Look. I get it. I understand that you are angry. I know you; Holmes, and I know you see this as a failure. A slight against your reputation, even. I assure you, it is not so. It was an accident. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it. We have to live with it and move on."

Holmes felt his blood reach boiling point, and sat up abruptly. Watson flinched at the sudden and unexpected movement.

"WE have to live with it? WE? Watson, I think not. It hasn't been 'we' since you moved out. It hasn't been 'we' since you decided it was a good idea to concentrate your efforts into your practice, spending your days treating common colds and trapped wind, and playing the good husband! 'We' haven't shared a case in months. Ergo, I think you will find, that there is no 'we' about it. This is my doing, and I shall suffer the consequences, without your mollycoddling. Thank you!"

Holmes' face was now a terrifying shade of scarlet, and his hands were shaking as they sat on his knees. He glared at Watson from underneath his brow, silently daring him to speak. If he couldn't have the silence he craved, then he would certainly put up a good fight, whether Watson liked it or not.

"Holmes, I am not yet a husband. If you insist on being argumentative, at least use fact."

Watson knew better than to raise his voice. He refused to give Holmes the satisfaction, and instead, he swallowed his growing animosity, turning his attention to his cup of tea.

"Irrelevant! You're as good as married. You've certainly taken your place under that woman's thumb. Whether you wear a ring or not is beside the point!"

It was becoming difficult for Watson to hide his true feelings with each insult thrown at him about Mary. He was very aware that Holmes had never grown to like her, but he was hoping that he would finally have come to terms with the fact that Watson had moved on. Clearly he was wrong.

"Holmes. I came here as a friend. I do not wish to leave as an enemy. I won't stand for your insults toward my fiancée! Do you think it fair for me to do so? Say what you will about me, but keep her out of this. This is about you, not her or I… Please, calm down!"

With the last line he spoke, Watson finally gave in to his temper. His sudden shout had an instant effect on Gladstone, starting him from his induced slumber and causing him to spring to his feet and run straight into Watson's shins, knocking him off balance and in turn upsetting the cup in his hand, spilling hot tea down his front.

Holmes held back a smirk as he observed Watson hopping over the dog and trying not to smash the china at the same time, whilst using his other hand to fan the hot liquid soaking through his waistcoat and shirt.

"Good Lord! Gladstone, you great oaf!"

Watson cursed as he finally managed to set the cup down and observe the damage to his clothing. The stain was spreading fast over his chest, scalding the skin as it covered him. Holmes made a tutting sound and resumed is reclining position on the settee, making a grand gesture of propping his feet on the arm.

Watson watched in disbelief.

"Thanks so much for your help, Holmes. I shan't forget it…" he mumbled as he began to remove his waistcoat. "I'm afraid I'll need to borrow a shirt. This one is positively ruined and I have an appointment to attend shortly. Were do you keep your clean ones, Holmes?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and waved his hand in the vague direction of the bedroom, his recent outburst all but forgotten for the time being.

"If you can find one, you can borrow it… Although I must warn you, Mrs Hudson hasn't been on top of the laundry of late."

He watched as Watson began to unbutton his heavily stained shirt, noting the redness that had appeared on the man's chest. Nothing too painful, he suspected, and would soon be healed.

* * *

As his eyes lingered on the superficial burn, he followed the line of Watson's pectoral muscles, watching them tense as the shirt was removed fully. There was a line of hair that ran neatly between them, and all the way down the abdomen to the waistband of the doctor's trousers. It was almost too perfect and straight, and Holmes couldn't seem to avert his gaze.

"Ruined. Another shirt ruined. What is it whenever I'm around you, Holmes? I always seem to lose an item of clothing, either through theft, or during one of your harebrained experiments! I shall save money by not living here, if nothing else…"

Watson seemed to be talking to himself more than anything, and as he bundled up the shirt in his hands, Holmes began to notice the rest of his form. His arms as they screwed up the dirtied fabric, his smooth back as it turned to search the bedroom for clean laundry.

Holmes had never looked at Watson that way before, and more than anything, it scared him. Second to the fear was an unwelcome stirring that he knew was anything but proper. As he began to feel more heated, he dropped his head back onto the arm of the settee and covered his eyes with his arm.

**'_Go away. GO away…'_**

He didn't hear Watson return from the bedroom. His thoughts were entirely too engrossed with the goings on in his trousers, and thinking of things to help diminish his sudden arousal.

With the only clean shirt in the house grasped in his hand, Watson opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the vision in front of him. At first he thought Holmes was upset, shielding his eyes from view.

It only took a second for him to realise that the awkwardly bulging trousers Holmes was wearing had nothing to do with his dark mood.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson froze in place. He couldn't help but feel that he was intruding; yet his eyes would not move from the figure on the settee in front of him.

Holmes didn't flinch, clearly not realising he was being watched, his eyes still covered by his arm. His lips were moving, silently mouthing words and Watson narrowed his eyes to try and make sense of what was being said under Holmes' breath.

**'_Go away… Go away… You're not wanted… Damn you…'_**

It was all too confusing, and Watson stepped silently backwards into the bedroom, not entirely sure what to make of it all.

Surely Holmes wasn't all that angry with him? Enough to wish him away, damning him and telling him he wasn't wanted? And what of his obvious state of arousal?

Surmising that the day had taken its toll on Holmes' mind and body in ways he couldn't comprehend, Watson hastily donned the shirt he'd been gripping too hard between his fingers. It took him two attempts to fasten the buttons, but finally he was presentable and with one last look in the mirror, he made to leave the room again, clearing his throat loudly in order to break the spell that Holmes seemed to be under.

"Ahem… I think I should be leaving now, old chap. The patients won't treat themselves!"

He picked out an object on the dresser, an old porcelain figurine, and aimed his conversation towards it, in an effort to save him and Holmes great embarrassment. As it transpired, there was no need. Holmes was now sat upright, leaning over the tea service and helping himself to a cup.

"Oh. Well… Are you sure you wouldn't like another cup, Watson? Or have you had enough excitement for the day?"

Watson could feel his cheeks reddening at the wording, and he bit his tongue before he could say anything about Holmes' own state of excitement.

"Very funny." Watson responded, still avoiding eye contact. "Be a brick and ask Mrs Hudson to take my shirt for cleaning when she collects the tray. I'll collect it tomorrow."

Before Holmes could retort, Watson picked up his cane and rushed out of the door.

For a few moments, Holmes sat staring towards the door. He was glad he'd had the presence of mind to disguise his unwanted erection before Watson had set eyes upon it. It would certainly have made for a very awkward conversation, and being unversed in such affairs, Holmes was sure that he'd make a fool of himself if he tried to explain.

He diverted his gaze back down to his trousers. They were still tented uncomfortably, and Holmes felt a brief pang of guilt.

**'_Stubborn so-and-so… GO DOWN.'_**

He nudged his crotch roughly with his palm, and instantly regretted the decision as he caught his breath in his throat, feeling the heat ignite in his belly once again.

**'_Touching. Bad idea.'_**

What had caused this? Surely it wasn't the glimpse of a shirtless man? Nay, not any man… His friend and trusted companion? He refused to believe it, and just as Watson had before him, he put it down to the stresses of the day.

**_'Stranger reactions have happened under lesser circumstances. Nothing to fear, old boy'_**

As he churned his thoughts for ideas to chase away the unwanted visitor in his pants, it suddenly hit him.

His mood had lightened.

* * *

He was no longer occupied with dark thoughts of failure and self-disgust. He actually felt quite cheerful, much to his surprise. He had expected the outcome of the day to be quite different, likely ending with him hunched over his desk, inebriated, syringe dangling from his fingertips. No doubt that, in turn, would have set Watson on edge when he found him the next morning nursing a sore head. Then, he would have delighted in berating Holmes and his disgusting habit - the same way he usually did, pushing Holmes further into his despair.

Yet, it was not to be.

Even as he cast his eyes to his desk, he felt no urge to rush over and retrieve his stowed case. No urge at all.

He even felt up to a visit to the police station to discuss the day's events with Lestrade. Surely there was some other direction they could take with the case? Another avenue they had yet to follow, a stone left unturned, maybe? There was only one way to solve this case, and it wasn't by sitting in the dark, plucking at his violin.

With one swift movement, he grabbed his overcoat from the chair where it was strewn, and shouted his goodbyes to Mrs Hudson.

On an even brighter note, his trousers now seemed to fit him quite normally.

* * *

As a third hansom passed and splashed him with rainwater, Watson was shaken from his thoughts.

He raised his hand in the air and shouted after the cab, just catching the driver's attention before he turned the corner, and walked quickly to take his position on the seat inside.

His mind was reeling, and he wished (too late, of course) that he had stayed to finish his consult with Holmes. He still wasn't entirely sure that the detective was in his right mind, and the unfortunate incident of the tea spillage had cut short his efforts to comfort his friend in what must be a time of great need.

Then there was the business of, well… the 'business'.

He tried not to think about it at all, but every time he pushed it from his head, it came knocking again just as quickly. What on earth had Watson missed? He couldn't think of anything the whole time he was there that might have elicited such a reaction, and the only woman present for any space of time was Mrs Hudson. He very much doubted that Holmes' was harbouring a secret desire for the older lady, even though his behaviour towards her was sometimes reminiscent of a schoolboy with a crush, teasing his unfortunate love interest.

No. That was just ridiculous. So entirely ridiculous it could almost be true? No, definitely not. Holmes just wasn't capable of such a thing. It had to be a case of nerves. He'd had a bad day, followed by an argument, resulting in Holmes' body reacting strangely. Yes, that must be it.

Having reasoned with himself, and feeling a little better for it, Watson still couldn't shake the cold feeling in his stomach. Regardless of the whys and wherefores, Holmes had damned him. He wanted him gone. Whether it was so he could brood in the dark again, or to be alone in his delicate situation, Watson would never know. Either way, it hurt him to the core of his being.

Eventually, the hansom pulled up outside the practice. Watson paid the driver and started up the steps, giving one last thought to Holmes and his predicament. He suspected by now, the curtains were once again closed, and Holmes had partaken in his usual 'nightcap'… and with the morning would come another confrontation.

Watson sincerely hoped that the rest of his day would pass without issue.


	4. Chapter 4

The chimes of Big Ben rang out over the city, indicating the hour of seven.

After having spent the evening and early hours at the police station with Lestrade, Holmes still didn't have a break in the case. He knew there was something he was missing, but he was sure that it would eventually find its way into his mind like a moth to a flame. It was just a matter of time, and patience.

Unfortunately, Holmes had neither.

Thankfully, there had been no more murders or unusual happenings along the River Thames (aside the commonplace drunken fumblings and fights), but he knew it wouldn't be long before he was once again called upon to examine a body. There was no doubt in his mind that this wasn't over.

Arriving back at Baker Street, Holmes removed his coat and hat, dropping them by the front door, and bound up the stairs to his rooms. There was much to discuss, and he had hatched a plan to coerce Watson into assisting with the case.

It had been months since he and Watson had worked together, and although he would never freely admit it, he missed his companion.

He missed bouncing ideas around, bickering about the meaning of a particular piece of evidence or clue, and the way they inevitably came to the same conclusion before sealing the case.

Of course, Holmes was more than capable of conducting investigations alone, but the empty chair that used to accommodate Watson served as a dark reminder of the partnership he had lost. He never could bring himself to move it.

"Watson! You won't believe the extent of Lestrade's incompetence…"

As he burst through the door, invigorated with enthusiasm, his exclamation fell on deaf ears. As usual, he was alone.

He had been expecting Watson to be waiting for him, loaded with questions as to his whereabouts. This was usually the case when Holmes had been out all night, and Mrs Hudson couldn't hold her tongue.

Holmes recalled Watson saying he'd come to collect his shirt, and he'd expected him to stop by before opening the practice for the day.

**'_Hmm… Curious. Oh well, no matter. Onwards, Holmes, there is much to do.'_**

_

* * *

_

He took his place at his desk, brushing aside the newspapers that had accumulated over the weeks past, ignoring them as they fell into a crumpled heap on the floor. He pulled out the scraps of paper that constituted his case notes from his trouser pocket, slowly spreading them out and poring over them, his mind drinking in times, dates, names and locations, looking for some correlation to tie them all together.

As the door opened, Holmes barely registered. He knew instinctively that it was Mrs Hudson, by the faint tinkling of the teaspoon against the cup that sat on the tray in her hands.

As she sat the tray on the coffee table, she cleared her throat to catch the detective's attention.

"Shhh, Nanny. My mind is fully occupied and has no room for your banality. Thank you for the tea, that will be all."

Mrs Hudson was shocked into silence. She wasn't used to gratitude from Mr Holmes, as veiled as it was. She'd never heard him use those words in a sentence directly aimed at her, and it took her a few seconds to regain her wits.

'Mr Holmes, you worry me. You seem awfully out of character. Shall I call the doctor?'

Holmes' concentration was completely broken, and rather than reacting with exasperation, he merely turned in his chair and smiled.

"No need! Watson will be arriving presently. However, I'm feeling perfectly fine, and won't be requiring his services… this time."

Seeing his face for the first time that day, Mrs Hudson drew a long breath.

"Pardon me for saying so, but you look exhausted. Your bed was unused last night, though I doubt you'll enlighten me as to your whereabouts. Get some rest, and please tell Dr Watson that his shirt is clean and pressed and hanging over by the window."

With that, she left the room, not wanting to upset the seemingly good mood before it had even had a chance to sink in. She wondered what exactly had occurred, but decided that the reason was of no consequence, silently hoping that the calm would remain for at least a little while.

Instead of going back to his notes, Holmes let his gaze fall upon the shirt gently swaying in the morning breeze. All evidence of the previous day's accident had been washed away, leaving a tidy, pressed, almost brilliant white shirt. Smiling to himself, he left his seat and walked towards it, reaching out and taking hold of one of the cuffs, rubbing it gently between his finger and thumb.

He let out a gentle sigh, and breathed in deeply, taking in the smell of the fabric. It smelled of soap, the airing cupboard that it had been set in to dry, and Watson.

There was no mistaking that smell.

It was surgical alcohol, cologne and hints of tobacco. Each smell evoked a different memory.

He had visions of Watson gently cleaning his wounds after the latest injury in the boxing ring; of Watson adjusting his tie in the mirror before dinner at The Royale, and of him laughing aloud as the sat in front of the fire with their brandy and cigars.

It was all Watson.

His scent had long left the rooms he had once occupied. Nothing held any reminder of his presence anymore, and Holmes savoured the scent as it lingered in the air around him.

Unhooking the hanger from the curtain rail, he gently folded the shirt into his arms and moved over to the settee.

* * *

Mrs Hudson ushered Watson into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him, holding a finger to her lips and gesturing upstairs.

"Quiet, Doctor. He's just drifted off. I'm sure you're aware that he didn't come home last night…"

Watson was taken aback.

"No, I was not aware. I'm not sure why you thought I would be? Nevertheless, where was he? Is he well?"

He removed his coat and hung it on his old hook, next to Holmes' tattered hat, noting that the detective would definitely benefit from a trip to the hatter.

"Well, I didn't like to ask. He was acting strangely, you see. He looked a little peaky. He said he was well, but he was being very… nice. Most unusual, Doctor."

Watson rolled his eyes. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with a situation like this, although he was beginning to think, and partly hope, it had come to an end. He rolled up his sleeves and steeled himself for what lay in wait behind Holmes' door.

He knocked hard, half expecting a violent shout aimed his way, or at worst, the shattering of whatever object Holmes had deemed worthy of pitching across the room. Holmes didn't like to be awoken in his inebriated state.

Getting no reply, Watson knocked again and turned the doorknob slowly, peeking his head around the door to gauge the atmosphere inside.

There was nothing but the sound of gentle snoring.

Clearly, the embarrassment Holmes had encountered the previous day was weighing hard on him, and Watson reminded himself to be tactful. A bruised ego is a painful injury for someone like Holmes, more painful than anything he could sustain in the ring.

Watson poked him gently with his cane. He watched as Holmes' eyes flickered gently under the lids, his hair all ruffled and stuck out to one side. A grin slowly spread across Watson's cheeks.

"Holmes… Holmes? Wake up, dear boy."

Opening his eyes slowly, Holmes reached up to rub the sleep from them, but found his hands tangled up in fabric. Seeing the white fabric, he was shaken alert.

"Oh… um… I must have fallen asleep." He sat up swiftly, tucking the shirt down by the side of him. "Good morning, Watson. I trust it is still morning?"

Watson tapped his cane on the wooden floor absent-mindedly as he appraised Holmes' features. Sleep was still heavy on his face, and his eyes avoided Watson's gaze guiltily.

"Heavy night Holmes? I hear you didn't make it back last night. Meet someone did we?"

There was lightness in his voice, but Holmes could sense he was being reproachful. Meeting his gaze for a moment, Holmes couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Ha! I have no time for such frivolity. You of all people should know this, Watson."

The doctor scoffed at Holmes' words.

"No time for frivolity? Other than your usual dose, I suspect?"

Holmes was astounded. He hadn't expected to be accused of anything, much less the one thing that hadn't even crossed his mind. Turning away from Watson, he made his way to the window, observing the traffic in the street below. He knew Watson had reason to suspect him of 'self-medication'. After all, it wouldn't be the first time.

He tried to find the words to make Watson believe he hadn't indulged.

"I would have thought you'd have more experience of signs and symptoms by now, Watson, old chap. I'm perfectly well, no matter what gossip Mrs Hudson has spoon-fed you with. I assure you."

He hunched his shoulders slightly as he awaited the rebuttal.

"Never mind that, Holmes. Why on God's earth were you sleeping with my shirt?"


	5. Chapter 5

The air around Holmes seemed to freeze every inch of his skin. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't answer because he didn't know the truth. He could feel Watson watching him, burning a hole into his back with every passing second, conflicting with the cold that had swept over him.

"Holmes. Did you hear what I said?" There was an audible hesitation in Watson's voice, as if didn't really want to hear the reply.

Jiggling his hands in his pockets and rocking slowly on his feet, Holmes regained his wits, and spoke almost too loudly.

"What was that, Watson?" He was buying time, and Watson knew it.

"My shirt, Holmes. Why were you sleeping with it?"

Facing back into the room, Holmes plastered a smile on his face and looked the doctor straight in the eye, noting and taking advantage of Watson's nervous stance.

"Oh… That's your shirt? I was wondering what it was! It must have been laid on the settee when I dozed off. No harm, old boy, I'll summon Mrs Hudson and she can press it."

He approached Watson and took hold of the shirt, attempting to take it from him, but he was met with resistance as Watson gripped onto it just as tightly.

"Come off it, Holmes. You know as well as I do that Mrs Hudson would never leave a freshly pressed shirt on the settee. How long has she been doing laundry? It's hardly good practice!"

A mini tug of war ensued as each man battled to gain possession. Holmes knew, of course, that Watson was right, but he wasn't about to be caught out, especially when he had no other reason as to why he'd been so drawn to the shirt in the first place. He knew he couldn't admit to missing his friend, certainly not as far as to find comfort in a piece of fabric.

"My dear boy, we all make mistakes. You shouldn't be so expecting of Mrs Hudson…" He leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. "She is getting on in her years you know."

Watson let out an exasperated sigh, and with one final tug, he gained the upper hand and repossessed his shirt.

"Codswallop, and you know it!" He was irritated now, fed up of being fobbed off with silly excuses. "I am tired of you stealing my clothes, Holmes. If this is another scheme of yours to gain a new wardrobe, then I must inform you that it isn't working. This is one of my best shirts!"

Holmes felt the weight lift off his shoulders. Of all the reasons he had thrown around, that certainly wasn't one of them, but he was glad of the idea.

"Fine. You caught me. I'm usually so discreet! Must rethink my strategy next time…" He wandered away idly, still talking. "Although, if you wish to remain in possession of your items, next time you might think about taking it home for Mary to wash. I was rather puzzled as to why you left it here in the first place."

He sat himself in his chair by the fire, picking up his pipe and lighting it, puffing gently as his eyes remained on his friend. Watson shifted his weight and concentrated rather too hard on the shirt stitching.

"Well? Mary not the good wife she made out to be? Oh, wait, of course, you have your own staff now to ensure your shirts are cleaned. I'd get rid of them, old boy, if they aren't capable of the job at hand…"

Holmes was expecting the usual bristly response he got whenever he mentioned Mary in a less than flattering way, but Watson just stared blankly at him, hesitating slightly before he sat down in the chair next to Holmes. He sighed heavily and gently dropped the shirt on the floor beside him, folding his hands into his lap.

"We don't have any staff, Holmes."

His face flushed red as he heard the detective shift in his seat to give him full attention.

"Pardon? You don't have staff? A well-to-do doctor, like you? I say, you're not squandering away your money at the card tables again are you? I thought you'd given that up…" Holmes couldn't mask his concern with humour. His eyes scanned the doctor for any clues as to the problem at hand, but he came up empty. For the first time in his life, where Watson was concerned, he couldn't read the signs.

"No, Holmes. I promised Mary that was over with, and I haven't broken that promise. It's nothing like that at all."

Holmes nodded briefly, feeling a pang of guilt for jumping to conclusions. "So, is everything well at home? Mary is in good spirits, I trust?"

"Mary is fine."

They were getting nowhere fast, and Holmes knew that Watson would have him chasing around for the answer all day if he allowed it. He spoke firmly but kindly.

"Well, spit it out, man. There is something amiss, and I don't much like to be in the dark. I don't take well to it, as I've recently discovered…" He flinched slightly at the memory of the previous days debacle, remembering that he still didn't have any solid leads in the case, or indeed, any idea of where to start.

Watson squirmed in his seat, and Holmes pushed away his own anxieties whilst he awaited a response.

"Well… you see… it all seems rather ridiculous now. I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking. The thing is, Mary and I don't exactly have a home. Not yet. She's still with her parents."

* * *

The silence was oppressive. He'd expected at least a laugh from Holmes, but there was nothing. The only noise that came was from Holmes resting his pipe down on the table.

They sat for what seemed like an age, neither saying a word, neither moving an inch. Eventually, Holmes realised that Watson didn't intend on expanding further, so he spoke with caution.

"I'm not sure that I understand you, Watson. You say that you're not yet living with Mary? How can this be? You moved out months ago… Where on earth have you been?"

Unprepared and on the spot, Watson opened his mouth and let the words tumble free. He couldn't stop himself.

"Well, I knew I'd be leaving here once I'd found Mary. Of course, I love her. Why wouldn't we live together?"

He was aiming the question at himself more than Holmes.

"Then I realised that I'd never lived away from Baker Street before, except for my military years, and you know I try not to dwell on those. I just… I wasn't sure it would work out right away. It was a big step. Of course, I knew you didn't like the idea of me leaving, and in a way, I felt the same. I was afraid that I'd ruin things with Mary if she had to deal with me…well… missing being here."

Holmes certainly wasn't expecting what he'd just heard. First and foremost, he was perplexed as to why he hadn't realised there was something not quite right. Secondly, he was relieved that he wasn't the only one missing something.

"Watson. Where on earth have you been staying all this time? Hotels are very costly for permanent residence. Mary will not be pleased to find that you've wasted good money in such a fashion. I assume she thinks you're still occupying your room here?"

Realising exactly how unreal it all sounded, Watson hung his head, mostly in shame for misleading his fiancée, and partly in embarrassment for having revealed his secret to Holmes.

"I've been staying at the practice. I know… utterly unbelievable. I don't even know why I bothered. It was entirely a wasted effort. Apparently my mood has nothing to do with where I'm staying; Mary seems to think I've changed regardless of my efforts. She assumes it's because I'm no longer assisting you with your cases. Says I've lost my 'spark'."

His moustache twitched in irritation. He hadn't wanted to reveal so much, or anything at all, but it was difficult keeping his thoughts locked away. He'd been hiding too much for too long, and he had to admit that he already felt much better for getting it out.

"So, now you've realised what a fool you've been, Watson; and you have been, by the way… What do you plan to do?"

Holmes couldn't help but hope for the answer he'd wished for since the day his companion had left. He wanted him back. He wanted his scent in the room again, his medical case resting on the sideboard, and his hat and coat hung on the hook next to Holmes', where they belonged. He wanted to feel again, the same way he had the day before. Just seeing Watson had been enough to brighten his disposition, he realised that now. It had been so long since they'd been in the same room together, that he'd forgotten what it felt like to have Watson around. He'd fallen into a hole and Watson had helped him out, with his mere presence.

His work had suffered; he'd missed clues and fumbled cases, not because he was incompetent, but rather incapacitated. He was half of his normal whole.

"I don't know Holmes. I know that I need to work out a way of convincing Mary I'm the same man she fell in love with. I can't lose her, not after we've come so far. I'll put in a bid on the house we viewed in Cavendish Place… She liked that one. Good for raising children, she said…"

"And what about you, Watson? What is it that you want?" Holmes interrupted rather too quickly.

He picked up his pipe nonchalantly, trying to disguise the obvious desperation that was present in his voice. As he puffed away, trying in vain to light it, Watson leaned over and took it from his hands, placing it to his own mouth, and once it was alight, he passed it back. Holmes hesitated before bringing it to his lips, trying not to concentrate on the slight dampness left behind by the doctor, and dismissing the familiar stirring in his trousers.

"That is to say…" Holmes continued, "Is Cavendish Place really suitable?"

Watson sat silently for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his top lip.

"I guess only time will tell, Holmes. But for now, would you mind terribly if I spent the night here? The examination table has been playing havoc with my leg, not to mention my back. A hot bath wouldn't go amiss either…"

As Holmes crossed his legs and felt the unwanted hardness once again, he wasn't sure Watson spending any time at all in those rooms was a good idea; but his heart spoke before his mind could stop it.

"Of course. I'll have nanny make up your old bed"


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes sat staring intently into the fireplace wondering how exactly he was going to cross the room to call for Mrs Hudson, without bringing attention to the stirring in his most private area. He hadn't thought this through. His mind was clouded with the idea of finally having Watson back home - even if just for one night - and his mouth seemed to be taking on the habit of speaking before he could think rationally.

This frustrated him, and he furrowed his brow deeply at the sheer annoyance of it all.

"Holmes, are you feeling ok? You seem to have paled a little…" Watson leaned forward slightly to examine the detective more closely, shifting to the edge of his seat, causing Holmes to jump slightly.

"Yes, yes. Of course I'm fine. A little tired is all. Would you mind making your sleeping arrangements yourself? I really must get some sleep."

A silence fell over the pair once again, and it was clear that Watson didn't quite believe him.

"Well, I suppose that won't be a problem. Hardly the conventional way of making a guest welcome, old boy, but nevertheless, I'll go and speak with Mrs Hudson."

The doctor rose from his seat, and as soon as his back was turned, Holmes was up out of his seat and heading for the bedroom with little haste. Watson called after him before he could disappear completely.

"Are you sure you are well? You only woke but a few hours ago. Surely you're not so exhausted already?"

With his back to Watson, Holmes spoke softly, desperately trying to conceal his small deceit with joviality.

"A long night is all… Lestrade and I were awake until the early hours. A nap will surely refresh me. I'll be present for dinner, no fear."

With that, he strode away to his room and shut the door softly behind him, leaning his back gently against it, raising his face to the ceiling. His eyes closed as he dropped his hand to his crotch, gently resting his palm on his ever-hardening erection, feeling it pulse involuntarily in response to his touch.

* * *

It was becoming too much for him to bear. Twice in two days was certainly more than he was used to, and never before in company. It was becoming plainly obvious that this reaction was nothing to do with the stress of his case, and everything to do with the presence of Watson. This conclusion disturbed him greatly. How was it possible? He'd never experienced want or desire around his friend before, certainly not to the extent of such an obvious arousal. He'd never before considered Watson in such a way to warrant it, but right at that moment, he couldn't stop the image of the shirtless doctor from flooding his thoughts.

Something had to be done about it.

He locked the door quietly behind him and moved over to his bed, removing his own shirt in much the same way Watson had the day previously, his own torso reacting to the slight chill in the air - his nipples erect, causing him to shiver as the cotton of his shirt brushed over them.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, his trousers tightened uncomfortably around his manhood, so he lay back, raising his hands behind his head, a small but sharp sigh escaping his throat.

"**This is preposterous, Sherlock. You're planning to engage in indecent acts. It's hardly the first time you've seen a man in such a state of undress… Not A man. THAT man."**

As he scolded himself silently, he tried once again to clear his mind, counting the minute cracks on the bedroom ceiling, his fingers idly scratching his head, waiting for his desire to subside. He lay like this for a few minutes, battling his own conscience and confusion.

"**You should be out there listening to what he has to say, offering solutions to his predicament, not lying here like a depraved soul. It won't do."**

More scolding, very little sign of abatement.

His erection still stood proudly, straining the buttons more than before, now throbbing for attention.

"**God damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you to hell."**

His hand lowered to his waistband, tracing small circles on his taut stomach, stroking hesitantly at the hair leading down from his belly button. He flinched at his own touch, and the vision of Watson was fresh in his memory once again. Closing his eyes, he remembered every line and curve of the doctor's muscles, the ragged edge and bump of the scar on his shoulder, his tanned skin smooth and dimpled with goose bumps stretching over his torso with each movement.

He remembered how Watson's nipples had stood proudly, begging to be touched, wisps of hair covering his chest, leading down over his stomach and under his trousers.

Holmes felt a twitch of desire as he recalled the memory, and his buttons were soon undone, his hand reaching under the rough material, grasping onto his hardness and pulling it free from his underclothes.

Stroking himself slowly, he imagined stepping towards the man, hands meeting warm flesh, fleeting over the skin, taking in and remembering every little detail as if reading Braille. He saw his hands move to Watson's neck, into his hair, pulling him closer, his face but an inch from his own.

He felt their bodies press together, skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat, a faint sheen of sweat developing on their chests as their temperatures rose in pure lust.

Enveloped in his fantasy, Holmes arched up from the bed, his hand quickening pace, gasping for breath as his lips finally met Watson's in his minds eye, his mouth sealed over his lovers' as his tongue probed urgently, battling for dominance. As his pleasure was reaching its crescendo, he envisioned Watson pressing himself closer, moaning softly into Holmes, arms circling around his back as he ground his hips against him, both of them frantic for release.

Shifting back to reality, Holmes sat up abruptly; still palming himself frantically, ghosting his thumb over the moist head of his pulsating member, sweat beading on his forehead and chest. His breathing hitched as he felt an overpowering urge to cry out his friend's name, quieting himself just in time as he came hard into his hand and over his trousers.

He fell back onto the bed, his seed still covering his hand, too dazed to bother cleaning it away.

Sated, with his breathing gradually returning to normal, the sweat turned cold on his skin as his passion subsided. He basked in the feeling of euphoria that surrounded him, exhausted and spent.

Eventually, the sticky feeling in his hand began to bother him. Sitting up again, he reached for a handkerchief from his bedside drawer, wiping himself crudely before tossing it aside. His eyes fell on the stained trousers that were still unbuttoned around his thighs, his underclothes gaping, displaying his now flaccid penis.

He was overcome with guilt. It seemed such a sordid and sorry state of affairs, thoroughly indecent, and every moment brought back his fantasy - now crude and shallow. He knew that if Watson were ever to find out what had just transpired, their friendship would be over in an instant.

Kicking off his soiled clothing in disgust, he stood and began rummaging in his wardrobe for something clean to wear.

* * *

**A/N - Just so you know, I never wrote porny porn before so don't hate. I suck at it. Reviews might cheer me up!**


	7. Chapter 7

Having informed Mrs Hudson of his plan to stay the night, Watson settled into his old chair with the newspaper. He was very glad that she hadn't pressed him on the matter, as he had been sure she would be curious as to why he wasn't returning home to Mary. Of course, only Holmes knew the real truth.

The fire was dying in the grate, but he had no intention of stoking it. Watching the smouldering embers gave him a sense of relief and a feeling of comfort, remembering the days and nights he had passed in that very spot; watching the flames die as he and Holmes debated the wonders of the world.

There was no use in denying that he missed this. The past weeks had been torturous, and he'd been consumed so long in his own pride that he'd lost sight of what was real and what was perceived.

The truth was that he missed Holmes, but he'd hidden it so long that he'd almost begun to believe he could live without him. He'd thought he was ready to live with Mary, to move on and have a 'normal' life, with marriage and a home and one day, maybe some children. In fact, that very week he had been ready to fully commit himself to his new life. He and Mary had viewed a house that they both found agreeable, and he finally felt capable of making a go of it.

That was, of course, until Mary had revealed she was having her own doubts.

_**He'd lost his spark. He wasn't the same man she fell in love with. He wasn't showing her affection.**_

There were so many accusations, but far from hostility; she wasn't berating him, she was advising him. He'd felt particularly uncomfortable at her demeanour and would much have preferred her to be angry with him. His words had been lost and replaced by a pitiful smile. He knew she was right, and she knew that he knew it.

The problem he faced was that he couldn't give her an explanation. There was no reason for his melancholy as far as she knew. In her mind he was still in the very same position as when they met. He was running his practice, living at Baker Street, occasionally accompanying Mr Holmes on his late night jaunts to God-knows-where. He was the same old John Watson. In her mind, the only thing that might have caused this change in him was she.

How could he tell her that he hadn't been ready to commit himself to her? That he was having doubts about living together, and about leaving Baker Street? It made no sense, and would certainly cause her worry.

Here was a man, unwilling to progress a relationship with his fiancée because he was scared to leave his long-term friend and some time colleague? It was ridiculous, and he knew it. He couldn't possibly tell her that he was favouring his friend over her, even though he had gone to such measures to remedy the situation.

Living at the practice had helped for a time. With each day that passed, he felt a little more comfortable - he forgot to remember Holmes. He lived day to day, working hard. So hard, that he hadn't noticed he'd changed enough for her to take heed. He might not have been consciously thinking about Baker Street, but apparently his mind and soul craved it nonetheless.

He'd only really begun to realise this when he'd found Holmes in a state after the Hansom incident. He missed being there, helping him… comforting him.

It dawned on him that he would be this way forever. He would always miss Holmes, and he would always miss the thrill of adventure. There was no use fighting it. He had to find a way to make it work. He had to come clean to Mary, and fix whatever it was they had left of their engagement.

* * *

As Watson promised himself he would change, Holmes shook him into reality as he sat down quietly in the chair adjacent to his. Neither acknowledged the other as they continued to gaze into the glowing ashes in the range, the silence only broken by Watson's heavy sigh.

Holmes glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and opened his mouth to speak, before thinking better of it. If Watson wanted to talk, he wasn't going to force him.

"Holmes, I've missed this."

It was a daring confession, one that neither of them had expected to hear, especially Watson. He hadn't intended to say it so bluntly, but now he had, he felt better for it. He was done with hiding.

"Sorry, old boy. That was rather abrupt of me. I mean it, of course. I just never thought I'd say it."

Holmes fingered his dressing gown awkwardly. He was still immersed in shame at his previous activities, and Watson's sudden affection wasn't making it easy to forget. He changed the subject quickly in hope that it would ease his anxiety.

"No matter. I understand. So, when do you plan on settling Cavendish Place? You said it was perfect, no?"

This certainly wasn't the response Watson had been expecting. He was rather put out that his effort at sincerity had been so swiftly brushed under the carpet, hoping at least for a kindly word from Holmes in return.

"Well… yes, Holmes. It's a good family home. Mary likes it, although you seem to have forgotten that she isn't too fond of me at present."

He scowled at Holmes before he could stop himself, instantly feeling shame. It wasn't Holmes' fault that Watson's life was far from straightforward right now.

"Ah. Forgive me, dear Watson. I'd quite forgotten your dilemma." He picked up his pipe and began to stuff it with tobacco, avoiding Watson's gaze. "How selfish of me. So, what do you plan to do?"

At that moment, Mrs Hudson entered and began to lay the table for dinner, and Watson was secretly pleased for the interruption. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do, and he knew Holmes would never make him discuss it in front of Mrs Hudson anyway.

"Holmes, let's not speak of that now. Pray, tell me of your developments in your case. Although I no longer involve myself, your deductions still entertain me greatly."

Holmes' face lit up at the words. He'd always enjoyed surprising Watson with his skills, and he was overjoyed that he hadn't lost his ability.

As they sat down to dinner, all was forgotten. There was no Mary, no Cavendish Place, and no problems with seemingly impossible solutions. There were no awkward silences, no shameful images and no unwanted stirrings.

Whilst they ate, they shared tales of their time away from each other, Holmes talking of his cases, Watson of his most difficult and testing patients. Wine flowed like a stream after a downpour, and the air was suddenly clear between the doctor and detective.

They both came to silently realise that sometimes life was simpler when you avoid outside influence.

For now, there was nothing more than Holmes and Watson.


End file.
